


Can I Watch?

by ArtsyAfrodite



Category: Hemlock Grove
Genre: Animal Transformation, Blood, Blood Drinking, Blood Kink, Codependency, Dark, Destruction, Insanity, M/M, Self-Destruction, Strange Love, Transformation, Upir, Vargulf, Voyeurism, Werewolf Peter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-23
Updated: 2015-03-23
Packaged: 2018-03-19 05:18:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3597816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArtsyAfrodite/pseuds/ArtsyAfrodite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"...He wouldn’t stop until he destroyed himself which ultimately in the end, is what he wanted the most.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Can I Watch?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [joidianne4eva](https://archiveofourown.org/users/joidianne4eva/gifts).



> So this is my very first Hemlock Grove fic. It's been over a year coming, and I finally finished the idea. I've always had a fascination with playing around with how much darker Peter's character could be, and using Roman's "admiration/fascination" with him as a platform. And by darker I mean less cautious and more self-destructive (which they visited a bit in Season 2 with the Vargulf changes). This fic is only canon up to 1x02 and goes from there. The relationship here is rather dark, and emotionally licentious. There are familiar lines and elements that you will see. Also, I do not speak Romanian so excuse me if there are any grammatical inconsistencies. This fic does contain blood and some graphic depictions (mainly Werewolf oriented), so please do not read if that is a trigger!
> 
> A big thank you to joidianne4eva (i-was-put-together-wrong on Tumblr), and hippiesandhookah (Tumblr) for letting me bounce things off of them! <3

_Transformare_

He remembers the first time it happened.  He’d blacked out completely under the round face of the moon, only to wake up frantic and naked the next morning in a pile of sticks.  He was in the middle of the woods somewhere, his body covered in mud and blood, nearly frozen.  His bones never screamed so loud.  His heart was beating so fast he thought it would stop. 

_Breathe in.  Breathe out._

His nearly insane grandfather, Nicolae, found him, spoke hastily in Romanian and told him he’d finally experienced his first “transformation _._ ”  _Transformare._   It was painful, and although he didn’t remember much afterwards, he knew it was gloriously gruesome.  The smell of blood and animal fur lingered on his skin, the taste of foreign iron stained his tongue, and suddenly, just like that – he was a little less human.  His stomach turned on him and he’d vomited up everything in it but the lining.

“Always happens first time,” his grandfather said pointedly with a heavy, Romanian accent.

At age twelve, Peter Rumancek cursed the full moon, defaced his lineage.  Over the years, he learned to embrace it.  Little did he know he’d eventually aim to dismiss it, disobeying the nocturnal order of things – all in the name of a strange and powerful desire.

*

Fuck the butterfly and its pretty wings, carrying it across the warm winds of spring and change.  It’ll never end up back on its belly, crawling, inching forward slowly in the muck.  Instead, it’s later revered as beautiful.  But Peter – he finds it a mockery.  Bullshit.  True transformation is never beautiful, especially for his kind; even for the butterfly, when in its chrysalis, so unappealing, suffocating – a hardened reminder of what it used to be before it breaks, cracks open.

For Peter it’s different, the change.  It’s never linear, goes both ways, rips and _bleeds_.  It’s always horrific.  Macabre.

 _Transformation._  Most people don’t get it – never will.  But he gets it.  Gets _him_.

He calls what Peter has mesmeric, each way more grotesque than the last.  More exquisite.  _Him_.  The one with the large, pierce through your bones eyes.  His gaze hurts far worse than the repeated breaking of them under the full moon.  Yet, he never looks away.  Peter always sensed he had a hunger, just never knew for what – until now.  He says the change is fucking beautiful, uses the word too loosely for Peter’s liking.  Beauty.

It’s a beguiling call to death.  A call Peter answered without hesitation.

“How’re you feeling since, you know, yesterday?” Roman asks Peter curiously as they exit the school building. 

Feeling examined, Peter looks him in the eyes, something he can’t avoid anymore.  “Fine,” he answers nonchalantly.

Roman Godfrey wanted to see him tear, watch his skin split and bleed as his body twisted until his bones broke into different forms.  So he asked him if he could watch.  Peter obliged, and not reluctantly.  Roman had that effect on people.

And now, he knows can never go back.

 

_Passing notes was juvenile.  Who did that shit anymore?  Definitely not Roman – he threw them across rooms.  Classy.  Peter already loathed this dreary, poor excuse of a town, lacking the patience to deal with a spoiled, silver spoon fed brat while he drowned in the context of Wuthering Heights.  Hemlock fucking Grove.  He knew there were mysteries to its name, things unseen yet sensed in the thick, polluted air._

_But Roman – he wasn’t that mysterious.  In theory he looked it, with those intense eyes that always seemed to be hooded and that illustrious frame that was well over six feet.  But Peter wasn’t fooled.  He could smell him from the first moment he walked passed him, unwillingly locking eyes._

_Upir._

_They were always trouble._

_As he sat, crumpled paper in his hand, he thought about not opening it.  But even peripherally, Roman’s eyes did things your body warned you against ignoring.  Fighting it was useless.  Giving in, Peter opened the note, three words scribbled decisively in blue ink between each wrinkle –_

_‘Can I watch?’_

_Feeling his pupils swell slightly and his balls twitch, Peter re-crumpled the note.  He’d tell the town heir after class it was out of the question.  Little did Peter know it was out of his control now.  He meant to say no, but something else came out._

_“You can.”_

Sitting on the cement steps in an empty, enclosed stairwell, Peter lights a spliff, passes it to Roman.  He inhales deeply without hesitation, glances at him then passes it back.  The heir doesn’t have to speak for Peter to sense he wants to ask him _the_ question, one lingering on his tongue since he witnessed his transformation, so he beats him to it, answers before he can ask.

“You know that can’t happen,” Peter says knowingly through a mouthful of smoke, “not on a bad moon.”

Roman chuckles lightly, earning a serious glare from Peter.  The smirk on his lips slowly turns into something more dangerous as his eyes scan slowly over the Gypsy.  “So I have to wait until the next full moon?” he asks.  Peter nods which causes Roman to furrow his brows.  “I thought real Werewolves didn’t follow the storybook assumptions.”

Something gives way inside of Peter, and he finds himself meeting Roman’s gaze.  _A challenge_.  His head tells him ‘no’ while something much more primeval and decadent scratches him inside, deep down somewhere where logic can’t get to, screaming – _yes_.  Fucking Upir.  “Do you know what turning before a full moon can do to me?” he asks, knowing Roman is too caught up in himself to care. 

Or maybe he’s too caught up in _him_.

Seeing Peter change has obviously changed Roman in way he dares not explain.  It bought out something that was seemingly dormant, waiting to be grazed across the surface, just a little, but more than enough to awaken it.  “I don’t know,” Roman finally answers.  He bites down on his lip, presses his need deep into the full flesh before running his hand through his hair.  “Enlighten me pup,” he says, his voice lower.

“I’ll become a Vargulf,” Peter responds, “which is essentially a Werewolf who loses its mind from turning on the wrong moons, loses control and kills with abandon.”  He takes a deep drag on the blunt, lets it sit in his lungs.  God he needs the high.  He needs it to mask the one he’s getting from Roman’s eyes.  It’s something he didn’t expect or want, yet he feels he needs now.  He exhales, his demons only partially escaping – he can’t let this conversation go any further.  “So your answer is no.”

“Is it because I said it was fucking beautiful?” Roman laughs.  It’s lined with something insidious, yet enchanting.  “What makes you think I want to see you turn so soon again anyway?” he asks.  “I was only joking when I bitched about waiting until the next full moon.”

He wasn’t.   

This time Peter laughs, turns and gives Roman a look reminiscent of one a pack leader gives its pack.  His smile slowly fades into something more serious as his senses suddenly heighten.  It’s obvious what gives him away. 

“Your eyes,” Peter responds.

 

_Linda would’ve had his balls if she didn’t trust them._

_It’s not every day a Gypsy Werewolf invited an eager Upir to watch them change.  It went against every rule, every belief his people held close to their wandering hearts.  But Peter was pretty sure Roman had yet to even realize what he was.  That type of realization and power could be dangerous for someone so young and already powerful._

_Besides – he felt as if something important was just around the bend._

_He was twitching way before Roman arrived.  It always began with the nerves, your insides jumping – burning.  He was on fire.  By the time the Upir sat down across from him, beads of sweat were running down his face._

_“Does it hurt?” Roman asked.  Peter envied the tranquilizer he’d just ingested, longed for the numbness it could give.  But even a thousand of them couldn’t anesthetize the feeling of your insides slowly being ripped apart._

_“You wouldn’t know if a bus hit you,” Peter responded, his breathing shallow.  He sucked in as much air as he could, his lungs already changing.  It fucking hurt.  But then there were his eyes.  Roman’s eyes.  It was a different kind of pain, administered through a stare.  He was eager, ready.  Somehow, Peter needed it – it made the impending transformation almost sweet, anticipation pricking the tip of his tongue._

_He undressed.  Removed clothes and human disposition._

_As he removed each article of clothing, Roman watched.  And watched.  Being on display like this was new for Peter, almost unnerving.  Yet, he found himself moving a bit slower, taking his clothes off with a purpose only to drag it on a little longer.  Roman never broke his eyes away, and Peter was beginning to feel like if he did, he’d prematurely tear off a piece of his flesh._

_The sun skimmed the horizon, slowly beginning to disappear into the dusk.  It was time.  As he stood outside of their trailer naked and exposed, Peter felt it.  The pull.  The moon calling his primitive name.  A growl churned deep in is belly as the transformation slowly rose to the surface, and just as he looked up at Roman, those hypnotic Upir irises like hazel glass, Peter could see his reflection in them.  His spine cracked just as he blinked and it began.  Arose._

_To be destroyed only to be created was the most beautiful thing Roman had ever seen.  There was something almost poetic in the gore – he read the way Peter’s skin tore, heard the cadence of each bone as they broke.  It was a fucking song, each note burying itself underneath Roman’s skin.  His eyes were unblinking just as Peter shook the remaining human flesh from his silky, black fur and a howl broke from his canine lungs._

_The sound went somewhere Roman didn’t expect._

_Peter.  Now Werewolf.  He devoured his own flesh, made eye contact for just a second and ran off into the night._

_Roman couldn’t make the drive straight home.  He found himself pulling over on one of his many secluded back roads.  His eyes dropped into his lap, scanning over his erection.  He was both freaked out and turned on, unsure if it was the transformation, or just Peter himself.  But as he closed his eyes, his hand finding its way into his pants and stroking slowly, he knew he saw the boy naked in the dying sunlight, one million pulses throbbing underneath his skin right before he cracked open.  His hand quickened.  Roman could still smell the blood, almost taste it._

_He could hear Peter rip and came with a deep grunt._

Roman laughs, the corners of his large eyes crinkling.  He licks the corner of his mouth, a small gesture, but a large enough token to show Peter he wants something.  “Sheeeit,” Roman says through a chuckle.  The upturned corners of his mouth then flatten, just as a darkness comes over his eyes.  “They are the windows to the soul, aren’t they?” he asks, referencing Peter’s statement.

“Or lack thereof,” Peter responds.  Roman doesn’t even blink at the comment.  Instead, he stares longer, harder.  Peter’s mother always warned him against staring into a fire for far too long.  Flames always awakened things inside of you, or planted seeds you could never get rid of until they grew, withered and died.  He knows now looking at Roman and how he’s pressing him without saying a word, that when she spoke of this fire, she meant more than actual flames.  “Why do you want this?” he finally asks.

“C’mon pup,” Roman responds beguilingly, “isn’t it obvious?”

“Is it?”

The Upir inches closer to Peter and makes an unexpected move, removing a piece of hair out of his face, before quickly widening the distance between them again.  Baited.  “It is,” Roman offers.

Peter’s never one to cater to someone’s twisted fetish or guilty pleasure.  But when he opens his mouth to say no, history repeats itself and _something else_ comes out.  “Ok,” he acquiesces, “but only once.”

Roman smiles, a bit of something sinister twisting his lips upward.  “Midnight, at the park.”  He always gets what he wants.

He should be asking ‘why’ again, should be feeling uneasy about willing to turn on a bad moon all to fulfill some bizarre kink for an Upir who doesn’t even realize he’s an Upir.  That demon within is already all-consuming.  But somehow Peter finds himself only caring about satiating the taste that clearly sits atop Roman’s tongue – and he _likes_ the feeling.

Linda always warned him against staring into the fire for too long, but Peter finds himself wanting to, not caring if his pupils burn.

*

_Voyeurismul_

He dreams every night now – ever since that midnight when he howled at the crescent moon.

He sees Roman, towering above him as he voluntarily tears himself apart, his tongue running slowly across his bottom lip as his pupils become blown.  He sees him smiling just as a pair of wings sprout out of his back.  He bends on one knee, black wings wide and hovering over them as he plants a kiss on his bloody forehead.  He sighs, leans into Roman’s kiss before his skin sheds and falls to the ground at his feet, a guttural howl breaking from his chest as the moon turns red.

Demon vampire and Werewolf.  Sworn enemies with a strange and lascivious connection.

Peter wakes up shivering, his body covered in sweat.  There are voices lingering in the back of his head – something he’s never experienced.  They only last for a few seconds after he awakes, fades as he gains more lucidity.  Nevertheless, they’re there still, just not on the surface.  They’re down deep where his needs lie.  He would blame Roman, that fuck, for this newfound lust to take control, this heeding of hegemony something that makes it near impossible for him _not_ to ignore the moon and change on his own.  But truth be told it’s not the Upir’s fault. 

It’s him – always has been.

He feels a vibration coming from underneath the covers.  It’s his phone.  Peter never questioned himself as to why he now slept with the thing next to him.  Perhaps it was a way to remain as available as his body would allow him.  It’s no surprise when he sees the screen lit up with Roman’s name in the center, beckoning for him to answer.  He picks up after the third vibration.

“Hello?” Peter answers.  He ignores the fact that its 3am.  There’s considerable pause on the other end, the sound of heavy breathing the only thing Peter can make out.  But it doesn’t take much of an imagination to know that Roman _wants_ something.

“I need to see you,” Roman finally breathes out, releases something.

Peter feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand at attention from the way Roman’s voice carries smoothly though the receiver.   _A call and response._   He looks through the cracks of his blinds, sees the half moon and finds a strange appeal in it.  “Shit, you know I can’t,” Peter responds.  He knows he doesn’t sound very convincing, nevertheless he tries to deny the obvious demand.

“Or more like you can,” Roman responds, “you’re just afraid to.”

“What?  See you?”

“That…” Roman trails off.  He’s not in front of him, but Peter can see his eyes piercing through whatever the fuck currently had the pleasure of being stared at in his home.  He hears the distinct clink of a zippo lighter made of heavy metal being flipped open, followed by the crack of a small flame.  His senses have always been better than the average person, but ever since changing on a bad moon, they’ve heightened even more.  He can almost smell the nicotine.  He hears Roman blow out a mouthful of smoke, before he finishes his sentence.  “That and other – things,” he finishes.

By ‘things’ Peter knows Roman means the transformation.  But more than that, he also knows he means seeking what’s seemingly self-indulgent and unforgiveable by default.  He changes again – and it’s one step closer to becoming his grandfather, Nicolae.  “It’s only been a little over a week,” Peter answers.  His voice cracks and he hears Roman let out a laugh on the other end of the line.

“I don’t wanna watch you change tonight pup,” Roman says, a hint of something lascivious lining his voice.

“What do you want then?”

“Do I need to spell it out?”

“Humor me.”

Roman pauses.  It’s only a few seconds, but within that short period of time, Peter feels as if his lungs are being squeezed for one thousand seconds.  “Tell you what,” Roman breaks the short silence, “let me pick you up, bring you to my house and we’ll see what transpires.  If you can’t figure it out by the time you’re here, then you can sleep the rest of the night in the guest bedroom, undisturbed.  My mom and Shelly are away this weekend.”

“Right now?” Peter asks, already knowing the answer, already having his response.

“There’s only now.”  Peter hears the heavy clink of the zippo lighter again, this time it’s a series of metal clangs – Roman’s flipping the lighter, probably staring out his window into the moonlight.  “So, what’s it gonna be?” Roman asks.

“Come get me,” Peter responds without an ounce of hesitation.

His grandfather Nicolae warned him about this very thing.

 

_“You okay bunic?”  A thirteen-year-old Peter crouched next to his grandfather Nicolae as he was sat on a tree stump, sweating and eyes glaring at the half-lit moon ferociously.  Those eyes were wild and wise at the same time, having seen things that would drive a mad man sane, and a sane man mad.  It was always known that Nicolae was becoming the latter.  The moon wasn’t even full, yet his jaw danced the way it did before he transformed, his muscles twitching and his breathing jeopardized.  Once gone rogue, that hunger was nearly impossible to keep pushed down._

_“Fine nepot, fine,” Nicolae answered Peter.  He dug his long fingernails into the fabric of his jeans and gripped as if life itself would slip through his fingers.  “But it’s taking over.  I can’t feel it.”_

_It was no secret that Nicolae was in the midst of a downward spiral, the descent caused by the grip of his own hand and the tear of the Vargulf’s teeth.  The beast’s jaw was clenched tight, biting down on the little human nature he had left.  Peter looked at his grandfather – he was always a good man.  Strong.  True to who he was.  But ever since the bad changes, he’d become increasingly more distant, aloof.  Some would even say he was losing his mind._

_“What does it feel like?” Peter asked out of curiosity._

_A slow hum escaped Nicolae’s mouth that was neither approval nor disavowal.  Rather, it was something that landed in a dark gray area.  He wiped the sweat from his brow, steadied himself.  “It’s the most addicting and powerful feeling in the world,” he started as he studied the curiosity in Peter’s young eyes, “but it’s also scary and all-consuming.  Don’t ever do what I did, never let it take over you.  Listen to the moon.”_

_Peter shook his head in agreement as he listened, taking his grandfather’s advice.  “I won’t,” he responded._

_Nicolae then focused back on the eye in the sky, half-lit and doing things in his belly only a full one should.  “And Peter,” he said just as he placed a hand on his shoulder, “never let anyone else in to see this part of you.  Never.  It will only open doors to things even you couldn’t understand or control.”_

_Peter got the message, but somehow missed the warning._

“Something wrong?”

Yes. _Everything_.  But Peter knows he can’t tell Roman that, his lips pressed together and sewn shut as he remains silent.  He’s already in his 1957 Jaguar – or is it a 1961?  What does it matter?  It’s too rich against his skin regardless of the year, the leather seats plush against his back and Roman looking too fucking sophisticated for his blood behind the wheel.  But it isn’t the luxury that bothers him, it’s not the way they speed through back roads too dark for even his better than perfect vision eyes, or the way Roman’s white-knuckle gripping the wheel, trying his best to resist pulling over.  Peter picked up on that energy from the moment he got in, the Upir’s eyes far more penetrating than the night he watched him turn in the park.  There’s something deeper than need behind them.  Peter can sense it.  Nevertheless, it’s none of those things.

It’s him – all him.

He can barely tear his eyes away from Roman.

“It’s ok,” Roman responds as he suddenly makes a sharp left down an even darker rabbit trail, “you don’t have to respond to that.  In fact, you don’t have to say anything at all.  I know this is about the other night.”  His voice is suggestive and tempting.  He cuts his eyes towards Peter, who looks away after staring for too long to be considered platonic in nature.  “And you don’t have to look away,” Roman says in a way that makes his tone impure.

Peter decides to keep his tongue as they ride through the night.  He’d just gotten it back from Roman anyway.  The thick air is damp and warm against his skin.  He smells the things of Hemlock Grove – its deviants, darkness – its secrets.  But more than that, he smells Roman.  It’s a scent that’s been there, lingering underneath his nostrils, sitting boldly atop his lip.  And perhaps it was since that night in the park, since Roman’s _act_ before the turn.

 

_Nights like this weren’t supposed to happen.  Peter looked up into the sky, blinked at the half moon sitting amongst the stars.  It controlled more than the ebb and flow of the tides – it controlled urges, moved blood through veins in a way that most people never felt until they did something insane when it was full.  But Peter always felt it, every phase.  His blood would become a riptide against his bones, the beast within swimming to the surface ready to break him._

_Tonight was no different.  And he found himself liking the feeling._

_He brought his eyes back level to look at Roman, perched atop a picnic table in a form that could only be compared to a fallen Angel.  There was a divinity in his form that seemed desecrated, but in a way that made it captivating – almost beautiful.  “Why do you want this?” Peter finally asked after one too many stares.  It was dark, really dark in the area Roman brought them to, but the light from the sky casted just enough illumination for Peter to see the fire in Roman’s eyes._

_So he stared back into the flames, something he knew not to do – but wanted._

_“Same reason why you want it,” Roman offered.  The Upir brought his hand up to his mouth and slowly rubbed his thumb across his full, bottom lip.  Peter stood, unresponsive, but feeling the tsunami in his veins.  Because if Roman was never right about anything, he was spot on about this.  Going on something primitive, Roman hopped down from the table and made his way over to a silent Peter.  He made his way until he was less than a foot away from him.  “Cat got your tongue?” he asked._

_“No,” Peter responded, swallowing hard, “you do.”  He could feel the heat from Roman’s body reaching around his own.  And suddenly the fire within blazed on the outside, incinerating skin and inhibitions._

_He was caught off guard when Roman suddenly dipped his head down, placing his lips on his and forcing them apart with his tongue.  His first instinct should have been to pull away, but instead he leaned into the kiss, just as Roman took his bottom lip into his mouth, biting down.  Peter didn’t even care that he drew blood, and apparently neither did Roman who licked off what was beginning to dribble down his chin._

_The Upir pulled back, his big eyes hooded.  He smiled devilishly and wiped his mouth.  “Now you’ve got it back,” he offered as he slowly walked backwards, subsequently sitting wide-legged on the bench of the picnic table.  “So let me see you break apart.”_

_Just like that, Peter did as Roman desired.  How much he liked the feeling of ripping himself to pieces, how powerful it made him feel – it was something that was both liberating and scary.  Forbidden.  And it was then that it hit him at the same time he felt his spine crack – he’d open the doors his grandfather always warned him about.  Now here they were, spectator and performer._

_Victims of what the Romani called, “Voyeurismul.”_

The walk through the Godfrey house when they arrive feels like the green mile.  Roman craves to see such beauty that Peter can provide for him, and Peter will deliver it without question – a call so beguiling it can only lead to death.  And if not actual, something must die.  Fear.  Hesitation.  _Humanness_.  For Peter it’s feeling more and more like the latter.

Roman makes his way into the kitchen, Peter on his heels.  There’s a rather unique bottle in the middle of the table covered in Romanian art.  Peter recognizes it right away, nearly gets a hard on from the clear liquid in the bottle.  He turns to Roman who’s smiling cheekily, his arms folded tightly across his chest probably to keep it from swelling with pride. 

“Tuica?” Peter asks, dumbfounded.

Roman chuckles, clearly pleased at his rather extravagant selection.  “Yeah,” he says as he makes his way over to the table, “thought you might not only like it, but appreciate it.”  He opens the bottle ceremoniously and begins to pour the clear liquid into two, glass tumblers lined with gold trimmings.

“Shit, that stuff’s nearly impossible to get over here into the states,” Peter responds just as Roman hands him a glass.  “Romanian specialty whiskey, real shit.  How’d you get this?”

“Money can get you anything.”

As haughty and obnoxious as this sounds, Peter knows Roman is right.  “You think you can handle it?  This stuff makes you grow hair on your chest,” Peter says.  He tips his head back and takes a large gulp.  He winces at the burn, both shocking and sweet.  The taste reminds him of the plums he used to eat the two summers he spent in Romania with Nicolae.

Roman follows suit, swallows deep and finishes his glass in one gulp.  He doesn’t even twitch when the glass leaves his lips.  “I can handle a lot of things,” Roman says just as he pours another.  He downs that just as fast, his eyes never leaving Peter as he tilts his head back.  His Adam’s apple bobs, and Peter’s eyes follow the motion.

“You gotta take it easy with that stuff,” Peter warns, not really caring if Roman gets alcohol poisoning, just as long as his neck stays exposed like that.

“Easy’s not in my vocab pup,” Roman says as he makes his way around the table until he’s standing in front of Peter, “well, at least for a majority of situations.”  He reaches his hand out and removes a stray hair out of Peter’s face, just as he did on the steps a few weeks back.  Except this time, the Gypsy doesn’t flinch.  His cold blue eyes meet with Roman’s warm hazel ones.  “Have you figured out why you’re here yet?”

Peter swallows hard, cotton suddenly growing on his tongue.  “I think so,” he says.

He never brought up the kiss the night in the park in conversation to Roman.  Never told him how it made him feel, but somehow Peter feels the Upir knows whether or not he chooses to open himself up about it.  To see into someone is a rare and special phenomenon, a gift and a curse – and something Roman clearly possesses. 

“You don’t have to tell me how it made you feel Peter,” Roman offers knowingly.  It’s some scary shit, and it makes Peter shudder.  “I already know,” he says as he gets closer, and closer, “but you can show me now.” 

And before Peter can take a breath, Roman steals it from him and nearly sucks the life out of his lungs.  He sweeps his mouth with his tongue, making sure to leave nothing behind.  No fear, no doubt.  He feels himself stiffen in his pants when Peter moans.  He breaks the kiss, grips the hair at the back of Peter’s head and pulls. 

“I’ve never done this,” Peter says breathlessly.

“What?  Been with a guy?”

“No,” Peter responds, his eyes focused on Roman’s mouth, “given in to the thing that scares me the most.”

Roman tightens his grip on Peter’s hair, dips his head down and runs his tongue along the pulse point on his neck.  It’s throbbing, blood coursing furiously through the vein as Peter’s heart beats hard and fast.  Roman bites down, sucks the pulse behind the flesh and pulls up.  “I knew the first time I saw you change,” Roman starts as he takes his other hand and rubs his thumb across Peter’s bottom lip, “I wouldn’t need anything else.”  He presses his hips into Peter’s until their pelvis bones fuse.

And without the transformation, Peter feels himself rip open from Roman’s touch.

*

_Nebunie_

It’s been two months since they’ve been together, partaking in a codependency that’s bound to ruin them both, and Peter’s starting to feel Roman’s pull grow stronger than the moon’s.  He feels his mind bend around the things he asks for, tries to make sense of it.  It never does – it just _is_.  He’s changed on a bad moon two other times, surprised himself after both transformations that he didn’t tear Roman to pieces.

He rips himself instead.

The moon was full just a few days ago, and of course Roman was front row and center for the transformation.  This time around however, there was no shock value in the sight, no wide eyes and wonder.  There was simply a smirk, eyes hooded, deep and dark.  He has a thing for the ripping of his flesh, he gets it.

Roman made it no secret that this was his.  The voyeurism.  Peter.  The Werewolf.

As he lays on his back, Roman’s mattress plush against his skin and his naked body covered partly by Egyptian cotton, Peter’s eyes drift to the ceiling and focuses on the fancy fan blades turning, turning.  _Turning_.  Roman’s long fingers are wrapped gently around his wrist, his fingertips resting instinctively on the pulse point.  That’s where he seems to find his solace – in the beating of his heart, or maybe it’s more in the throbbing of his veins.  Peter’s almost certain it’s the latter.  There’s blood there, something Roman has revealed to have an affinity for.

“You ok?” Roman asks.  Peter is silent, almost too silent.  He carries his eyes over his skin, takes in the paleness and the bags under Peter’s unblinking eyes.  “I didn’t mean to – “

“You don’t have to explain or apologize about it,” Peter cuts him off.  His voice is slow, heavy.  It’s lined with something that wasn’t there before.  He takes his eyes off of the ceiling fan and focuses them on Roman.  He blinks for the first time in what seems like minutes, reaches his hand out and brushes his thumb across Roman’s bottom lip.  “I gotta go,” Peter says suddenly.

“Go?” Roman asks somewhat surprised.  “Where are you going?”

Peter sits up and places his feet on the floor.  He looks over towards Roman and smiles dimly.  It’s forced.  “I just…” he trails off as he stands, “I have to go to my cousin’s.  It’s important.”

“It’s two in the fucking morning,” Roman bites.  There’s an air of possessiveness in his voice, which wraps around Peter, nearly makes him fall back into bed.  It’s a wonder and sometimes disturbing to the human in Peter how easily he feels the need to succumb to Roman’s every wish – it’s instinctive to the wolf in him to do so willingly, as if laying his head at a pack leader’s feet.  But he’s not his alpha male.  He’s something far more persuasive and tantalizingly insidious.

“Yeah, well, she’s a night owl,” Peter offers as he throws on the rest of his clothes.  He makes his way to exit the room, stopping to turn around before making his way out.  He can see the dancing of Roman’s jaw, a tick he’s come to learn.  He’s pissed.  Most people who are used to control will react at the slightest loss of even the loosest of grips.  “Don’t be pissed, I gotta do this.”

Roman stands to his feet, stomping his way towards Peter.  He doesn’t bother to put on clothes, his nakedness something he knows he can use as leverage.  Exposed equals vulnerable – a card he’s willing to play if it means keeping Peter close.  “Do what?” he demands.  “Some details would be nice.”

“If you must know,” Peter starts hesitantly, “I gotta go to my cousin Destiny’s.  I’m dealing with something, and she can give me the answers I need.”

Roman steps closer, brushing his pelvis against Peter’s arm.  He feels him shudder.  “Is this because of what just happened?”

Peter casts his eyes to the floor, feels a coldness in his spine that rises to the back of his neck.  What happened just a few hours ago was only the tip of the iceberg.

 

_Maybe he was his lover now.  Peter hated that word.  But he didn’t know what to call Roman, only knew that he wanted him all the time.  And it didn’t matter what he asked of him, didn’t matter how bizarre or potentially damaging it was.  Peter delivered every time.  He’d let him watch him turn again – and this time he saw him change back._

_“When I saw you change back,” Roman said into Peter’s neck as he pinned him against his bedroom wall, “it was more beautiful than you turning.”  He gently bit down at the pulse throbbing in Peter’s neck, eliciting a moan.  It was a good moon when he turned, so Peter was safe.  So he thought._

_Roman bit down again, this time too hard, causing Peter to hiss.  The Gypsy closed his eyes tight, wondered quickly what he was doing, but just like first two times, the thought was fleeting.  He twined his fingers through the Upir’s locks, gripped tight and pulled just as he felt teeth sink further into his neck and his skin tear.  It didn’t take him long to figure out that he was bleeding – took him even less time to pick up on Roman gladly savoring his blood.  It didn’t even cross his mind to pull away._

_But when he opened his eyes, his dead grandfather Nicolae was there to greet him behind Roman, holding his own head Peter cut off when he was fourteen in his very dead hands._

_Peter began to panic, trying to push Roman off of him and failing miserably.  He was strong.  “What’s the matter with you?!” he yelled as Peter screamed and clawed.  His right hand found its way to his face, leaving evidence behind in the form of a deep scratch across his cheek._

_“You’re dead!  You’re dead!” Peter yelled repeatedly.  His eyes were wide as he looked at the ghost of his grandfather, Roman’s eyes not being able to see what he was seeing._

_Trying to alleviate the situation, Roman threw Peter onto his bed, pinning him down.  He was wild, frantic – animalistic.  “Calm down!  Who’s dead?!” he bellowed as he bent Peter’s arms above his head.  It was like trying to pin down a beast._

_Maybe he was._

_And just as if the moon was full, Peter’s eyes began to glow, a yellow fire piercing through his irises as a sudden change began to take place.  Roman could feel the shifting of his bones beneath him as the Werewolf struggled to get out as Peter panicked.  Going on instinct, he gripped the Gypsy’s face, pleading for him to breathe, fight it off._

_“You’re changing,” he breathed heavily, “but I won’t let you.”_

_Still human and understanding what was happening, in that moment Peter wondered if Roman wouldn’t let him change because he was genuinely afraid, or if it was a control thing.  This thing was his after all.  Focusing all of his fear on Roman’s eyes, Peter began to breathe deeply, fighting off the change as his mind became unhinged.  He could feel the Upir’s breath on his face, feel his chest heaving into his, and slowly but surely he came to.  The yellow glow in his eyes faded, returning them to ice blue._

_He stared up into Roman’s face coldly.  “I’m losing my mind,” Peter said with bated breath._

_“So am I,” Roman responded, his hands still secured tightly around Peter’s face._

_“I could’ve torn you to shreds,” Peter revealed shakily.  He brought his hands up to the small of Roman’s back, digging his nails gently into the exposed flesh beneath his shirt.  He needed something to grab onto._

_Still breathing heavily, Roman pressed his forehead into Peter’s, not really knowing what happened.  Perhaps he didn’t care.  “You already have,” he offered, before placing his mouth over Peter’s, taking his next breath as his own._

Peter looks back up at Roman, tries his best to make sense of everything that has been happening lately.  It doesn’t take long for him to realize that it’s the thing between them that forces out the thing inside of him.  It’s a weird and powerful recipe the two of them make up, dangerous and poisonous.  “It’s happening,” Peter finally says after a few moments of silence.

“What is?” Roman asks, the edge still in his voice.

“I’ve never almost changed suddenly like that,” Peters says as he takes a step back from Roman, getting rid of the feel of his skin off of his.  “The Vargulf is taking over, and if I don’t get a handle on this I’ll lose my mind, go insane, kill someone if I haven’t already.”

“What are you really thinking?” Roman challenges.

Peter blinks, bites the inside of his cheek.  “What do you mean?”

“You’re having second thoughts about us, I know it.”  A quiet storm begins to rage behind Roman’s large eyes.  “Admit it.”

“Roman…” Peter trails off as he re-closes the gap between them.  Letting Roman feel him always seems to provide a certain kind of leverage.  “To be honest I don’t know what this is, but it’s starting to get complicated.  Me changing on bad moons for you – and _liking_ it.  It will only make me go mad, destroy me, maybe even you in the process.”

“I won’t let it,” Roman assures him.  But the assurance is in vain.

“That’s not your decision.  When I change like this, all control goes to the beast, smothers me.  So you and me, we’re unstable,” Peter says just as he lifts his hand and runs his thumb across the cut in Roman’s cheek.  “We’re like a clumsy child with an affinity for glass.  Something’s bound to get broken.”

Peter removes his hand from Roman’s cheek and backs out of the room slowly.  He pretends he doesn’t have the urge to stay, to keep on doing what they’re been doing.

Roman watches Peter go, feels something inside of him go with him.  He pretends he doesn’t want to own this dark, uncontrollable side of himself, rubs his hands down his uncovered body.

Suddenly he feels truly naked.

 

“What the hell are you doing here right now?”

It’s after two in the morning, so Peter wasn’t exactly looking for a fair greeting from Destiny.  She frowns and pushes her unruly, brown hair out of her face.  Peter looks at her apologetically.  “Sorry it’s so late,” he offers, “but I need to talk to you.  It’s important.”

“What’s so important that you gotta bang on my door like the damn cops at almost three in the morning?” she scoffs.  She still doesn’t step aside to let her cousin in, simply tightens her silk robe and continues to frown.

Peter drops his head to the floor and rubs his hand through his hair.  He lets out a long breath, as he gathers the right words to say.  “I think I may have gotten in too deep with…” he trails off, still looking at the floor.

Feeling a climate change, Destiny opens the door wider.  “In too deep with what Peter?  What’s going on?  I’m a scam artist and a Gypsy Romani fortune teller with certain gifts, but I’m not psychic.  Spit it out.”

“An Upir,” Peter says as he looks up hesitantly at Destiny.

Not wasting another minute, she pulls Peter inside by his wrist and slams her door.  “An Upir?  What business do you have with an Upir, Peter?” Destiny asks as she stares him down. 

“I’ve been seeing this – this guy from school,” he starts off vaguely.

“Seeing?  Seeing how?”

“ _Seeing,”_ Peter says with an emphasis that can only mean one thing.

Folding her arms, Destiny studies her cousin incredulously.  “Wait a minute.  You came over here to tell me you’re fucking a guy who’s an Upir?  To tell me you’re gay now?”

“This ain’t about being gay, straight, bisexual or whatever.  This thing can’t be labeled.  It’s more than that,” Peter reveals.  He walks over to the kitchen and props himself up on the counter.  He grips the wood as he takes a deep breath.  “He’s got this sort of, influence over me Destiny.  I can’t explain it.  It’s weird, like we’re connected.  It’s scary sometimes.”

“How so?”

“I let him watch.”

There’s a crack of silence that fills the room.  Destiny’s eyes grow wide as she walks over slowly to Peter.  “The one thing you wouldn’t reveal if you walked on hot coals, you only let an Upir watch?!” she nearly screams.  She pushes Peter with both of her hands and nearly sends him stumbling.  “Are you insane?!”

“I think I might be,” Peter says as he regains his balance.  He then faces her, a fear stretching across his tired face.  “And that’s not all.  I’ve changed on bad moons, let him watch those too.”

It doesn’t take long for Peter to feel the sting of a hand across his face.  Destiny’s slapped him.  “You are insane!” she wails.  She slaps him again, then shoves him into the refrigerator.  “So you’re fucking him and letting him watch you change.  What is this, some weird fetish?  And don’t make me go in there, because I will,” she alludes to his mind.

“I don’t know what it is alright?!” Peter bites.  He feels it as he gets upset, deep in his belly, nails slowly scratching to the surface.  It wants to get out, and now all it takes is for him to get emotional.  He swallows it back down, fights it off.  “All I know is that I like it Destiny, and I know this means shit’s getting real dangerous.”

“You do know what you’ve done, right?” she asks rhetorically.  She takes a step back and looks on him with something mixed with pity and disgust.  “You’re becoming a Vargulf Peter!  Just like Nicolae!”

“You don’t think I know that?!”

“That’s just it cousin, you do know, and you don’t wanna do shit about it.” 

“I do, which is why I came to see you,” he says as he walks into the living room.  He sits on the couch and buries his face in his hands.  “There’s gotta be a way I can make this stop, reverse it or something.”

“You know that it’s probably too late, right?” Destiny says as she sits next to him.  Her voice is lower, more serious.  “Are you having visions yet?”

Peter remains silent for a few moments.  He unburies his face out of his hands and looks up his cousin slowly.  “I saw Nicolae when I was with him,” Peter starts, his throat going dry, “holding his head in his hands.  I freaked out, nearly changed again.”

“Jesus Christ Peter,” Destiny huffs.  She rubs her hands down her face before she starts to chew on her nails nervously.  “You do know what this is, don’t you?”

Peter nods his head slowly.  He swallows hard before saying the very thing he used to hear during Romanian folklore when he was a child.  “Nebunie,” he says lowly in his native tongue.

“That’s right, Peter,” Destiny says as she takes one of his hands into hers.  “It’s insanity.  Typical Vargulf symptom.  So my guess is, you’ve gone through the first two things that have brought you here.  _Transformare ᶊi voyeurismul.”_

Transformation…voyeurism…insanity.  Peter knows this leaves one last thing, something he dares not speak.  “And where does that leave me?” he asks.

“It leaves you on a certain path to the last thing if you don’t distance yourself from this Upir and stop doing what you’re doing.  They’re persuasive and always trouble.  You’re starting into the flames Peter, literally.”  Destiny grabs a cigarette out of the pack on the coffee table, lights it then inhales deeply.  She passes it to Peter.  “You know what’s next,” she say through a mouthful of smoke.

Peter holds the smoke in his lungs for a while, lets it sting.  He exhales before looking over at Destiny knowingly.  “I’ll destroy myself,” he breathes out.

“That’s right,” she offers.  “It’s like Nicolae all over again, or any Vargulf.  He wouldn’t stop until he destroyed himself which ultimately in the end, is what he wanted the most.”

Peter closes his eyes and sees those large, bone-piercing eyes.  “That’s not what I want the most,” he says as he presses his eyes tight.

“Then what do you want?”

“Him,” he breathes out, finally opening his eyes.  He stares off into the distance, feels Destiny’s eyes digging into the side of his face.  He’s a lost cause.

“Who’s _him_ by the way?” she asks.  “I still don’t know who this mystery Upir is.”

“Roman Godfrey,” Peter reveals.

He can hear Destiny’s breath catch in her chest.  She rubs her hand through his hair, showing her worry more than offering comfort.  “Then you really do want destruction after all,” she says as she stands. 

It’s then Peter realizes he has bigger problems than the beast within.

*

_Distrugere_

Einstein said the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again, and expecting different results.  For Peter, it’s doing the same thing over and over again, and _wanting_ the same results – despite the danger it poses.  It’s the knowing what’s coming that makes him do it again.  _Play.  Rewind. Repeat._   He knows the tune all too well, sings it in his sleep.

Like a moth to a flame he flies straight into the inferno, singes his wings.  Be it his own desire or stupidity, Peter doesn’t know why he keeps going back to Roman, even after Destiny told him he’d dig his own grave if he did.  She’d practically shoved the shovel in his hand, told him to get to digging.  Perhaps Roman’s mouth would spit out the nails that sealed the coffin.  Either way, he knows he’ll ruin himself eventually, willingly.

Roman’s voyeurism has become addictive, Peter’s self-destruction all-consuming.  The Gypsy could blame his own monster for eating away at him, but truth be told, Roman had devoured him long before he turned on a bad moon.  He was in his mouth now, swallowed whole.  Every time Peter kissed him, he could taste more and more of himself being left in there.

Despite this sure path to destruction, Peter can’t help but feel this was meant to be.

Another month has gone by and the visions have increased.  Peter almost took Roman’s head off with that rusty, ancient axe he keeps on the wall in his foyer, thinking he was a demon coming to rip out his heart.  Thing is, he wasn’t that far off.  He’d cut his hand with the edge of the blade once Roman managed to calm him down and he dropped the axe.  There was blood running down his fingers.  Roman had licked each one clean, one by one.  Then he’d later passed his tongue over Peter’s skin, all the way from his neck to his inner thigh where he bit his way to his hardened flesh.  It was all about blood and sex with Roman a lot of times.  It was never quite clear which one he desired the most.

That was the most Peter had ever freaked out.  And as usual, it turned into him and Roman clawing at each other, trying to see who could tear who apart first.  Peter never came so hard.  After the heated, mad fucking he would try to leave as usual.  And as usual, Roman wouldn’t let him.  Peter’s starting to think he prefers it this way.

Tonight’s no different, except there’s no sex involved, only mind fucking that could make the most stubborn of thinkers blow their cerebral load.  Roman wants Peter to change – hasn’t asked – but he wants it so bad, even the little human that’s left in the Gypsy can smell it a mile away.  He doesn’t need the wolf to help him with that – the stench is stronger than his gaze, all blood and sex and wanting. 

“I need you,” Roman says as he runs his hand up and down his own chest.  He’s laying at the head of his bed, while Peter’s at the foot staring at nothing, yet at everything.

“You already have me,” Peter says as his eyes follow their shadows that have been dancing across the bedroom walls for the past hour.  They haven’t moved, but their souls have, and his own laughs at him, points and calls him a fool.  Strange love can do that to you, make you crazy.

Roman sits up, slowly swipes his tongue across his bottom lip and begins to make his way towards the foot where Peter lays.  He hovers above him when he reaches his position, presses his body into Peter’s, flush and heavy.  “No, I _need_ you,” he hints.

“I change before the full moon one more time, and I’ll kill you,” Peter warns, “then I’ll kill myself, I know it.  Those times I turned for you, I don’t even know what that was, any more than I don’t know what _this_ is sometimes,” he motions his hand between him and Roman. 

“I’m not asking you to change,” Roman assures him, “I’ve seen you slowly lose your mind, descend deeper into a hole I know I may not be able to pull you out of.  So no, I’m not asking that.”  _For now._

“Then what are you asking?”

“I’m asking you not to leave me,” he states as he trails his thumb down the side of Peter’s face, “ever.”

Normally, when someone asks you never to leave them, it creates a warm feeling inside, makes you feel wanted.  For Peter, it’s the opposite effect – there’s an ice that forms around his spine, makes it hard to bend.  “I – I’m not going anywhere,” Peter says hesitantly.  The words feels as if he’s regurgitating shards of glass, because he knows continuing this thing with Roman means the nail in his own coffin.  “I need some air,” he breathes out, the air in his lungs suddenly abandoning them.  Perhaps it’s the weight of the Upir on top of him.  Maybe it’s the weight of his own mind.

“I’ll come with you,” Roman says as he stands.

“No,” Peter responds suddenly, catching Roman off guard.  His large eyes scan over him suspiciously.  Peter’s certain he feels one of his bones begin to break under his gaze as it pierces through.  “I, just need a moment alone.”

Roman remains silent for longer than what is considered comfortable.  “Fine,” he finally says.  His voice is barely above a whisper.  It’s alarming.

“I’ll be back, just gonna take a walk,” Peter assures Roman as he puts on his jacket and walks out his bedroom.  Roman pretends he doesn’t hear the front door of his house open and slam shut.  He pretends the sound doesn’t make him shudder and feel fearful that maybe he won’t come back.

Roman pretends after more than an hour that Peter hasn’t left him.  It isn’t possible.

 

Peter stands outside of Destiny’s door for twenty minutes before he knocks.  He looks over his shoulder, knowing Roman doesn’t know where his cousin lives, but also not dismissing the fact that he’ll be able to find him.  He raps loudly three times on her door and waits.  It doesn’t surprise him when she swings it open, her eyebrows furrowed and lips pursed.

“The fuck Peter?!” she says loudly.  She scans her cousin up and down.  “The hell are you doing banging on my door like the cops, again?!”  Her frown flattens, a worried look blooms across her face and she pulls him in, glances around the hallway suspiciously before closing the door.  She turns around to Peter, takes in the paleness of his features and the slight weight loss – he’s almost a shell of himself a month ago.  “ _Oh, Doamne_ ,” she starts off in Romanian, “you look like shit.”

“I know,” Peter says weakly as he walks over to the couch and sits.  He rests his head into the couch and closes his eyes, allows himself to sink into the cushions momentarily. 

Destiny sits next to him and looks at him knowingly.  “How long?” she asks.

“About a month now,” Peter responds. 

A breath escapes Destiny’s chest as she grasps it.  She stands and begins to pace the floor nervously.  “He know yet?” she asks.

“No, I don’t think so,” Peter responds. 

“He’s gonna find out soon.  Has his thirst increased?” Destiny asks.

Peter closes his eyes and shakes his head.  “Yeah,” he answers dryly.  “He’s been craving blood more and more, and…” he trails off.

“And what, Peter?”

He re-opens his eyes, focuses them on his cousin.  There’s a sudden weight of guilt that presses on his chest.  Destiny warned him a month ago to get out while he could, before he either destroyed himself, or Roman beat him to it.  “I’ve been giving it to him.”

Destiny’s eyes grow wide.  She charges at Peter, raises her hand then brings it across his face.  Peter welcomes the sting of the slap again – he deserves it.  “So not only are you on the brink of becoming a Vargulf and losing your mind, but you’re also letting a fucking Upir have your blood?!” she practically screams in his face.  “Jesus Peter, this is bad.  He doesn’t even know what he is yet, but he’s getting close.  I told you Upir’s are always trouble!”

“You don’t think I know that?” Peter says as he sits up.  His eyes that were blank a moment ago suddenly flicker to life.  Just talking about Roman gives him an energy he can’t explain.  “I told you, I can’t explain it, what me and Roman have.  All I know is I can’t leave, despite the rational part of me screaming in my head to do so.”

“You have to get out Peter,” Destiny pleads.  “This will only lead to someone getting hurt, or worse, killed.”

Peter looks down, studies the cut on his hand from the axe.  He then brings his hand up to his neck, presses his fingers against his pulse and feels the marks from Roman’s teeth.  Somehow, he feels complete with them.  “I’m sorry Destiny, I can’t leave.”

“Then why the hell did you come here, huh?!” she wails.  “Why Peter?  Why if you were just gonna disregard everything I tell you?  I thought you needed my help, but apparently you don’t.”

“Apparently,” Peter responds lowly.  He looks up at her and stares blankly.

“Shit, you are losing your mind,” she says.  “You’re in the thick of it, you know that?  And it’s by your own hand cousin,” Destiny continues.  The worry in her voice changes to anger.  “You do know what you’re in the midst of right?”

Peter shakes his head knowingly.  There’s a flicker of something dangerous behind his eyes, and suddenly it all makes sense.  “Distrugere,” he finally responds in Romanian.  Destruction.  It’s the last stage in what will ultimately be his demise.  He knows it’s only a matter of time before he changes on a bad moon again, falls deeper with Roman.  But somehow he’s content with this, wants it.

“Peter,” Destiny says shakily.  Worry’s returned to her tone.  “I can try to help you, do any and everything I can.  Please.”

Peter breathes in deeply, exhales, but none of his demons escape.  “I’m sorry,” he says as he stands.  He came to her for help, and now realizes he came here to see just how much he belongs back with Roman.  It’s insanity for sure – but it’s also love, strange and diabolical in nature.  But it’s _theirs_. 

He brings Destiny in for an embrace, kisses his goodbye into her cheek.  He pulls away and makes his way back to the door, but before he can place his hand on the handle, there’s a series of loud bangs.  They both pause, listen out for the person behind the door.  There’s no movement for a few more seconds, before another chain of bangs nearly blows the wood off of the hinges.

“Peter!  I know you’re in there!”  Peter feels his heart skip a beat at the sound of the angry voice behind the door.  It’s Roman.  The Upir continues to bang repeatedly, screaming his name.  “Peter!”

“How the hell does he know I live here?” Destiny asks, her voice in a panic.

Peter looks over his shoulder, gives her a clueless shrug and turns back to the door.  Roman continues to bang wildly.  “I’m in here!” Peter calls out.  “But you need to calm down before I open that door!”

“Are you out of your fucking mind?!” Destiny says as she yanks Peter backwards.  “Do you know how strong an Upir is?  What they can do?”

“I got this, Destiny,” Peter assures her.  “He’ll listen to me.”  Needing to alleviate the situation, Peter charges at the door and swings it open.  Just like his unconventional feelings for Roman, the move was damaging.

Without hesitation, Roman grabs Peter by his neck with both of his hands and slams him against the wall.  Pictures and artifacts on shelves shake, clash and fall to the floor breaking in thunderous crashes.  “You fucking lied!” he screams madly into Peter’s face as he begins to choke him.  “You said you wouldn’t leave me!”

“I – I was gone for two hours,” Peter struggles to say through staggered breaths.  Although it was in the back of his mind to leave, he knows now that he can’t.  He just needs to convey that to Roman.

“Don’t lie to me!  You were gonna leave, just like that!” Roman continues to shout.

“You need to calm down and let him go before he gets worked up and changes!” Destiny pleads.  Roman doesn’t even blink at her.

Instead, the Upir gazes into Peter’s now glowing eyes, a hurt look spreading across his face.  “I thought we had a good thing,” he says brokenly. 

Peter, still struggling to breath, begins to feel his life leave his body.  He knows he won’t be able to control it now.  He looks at Roman, takes his hand and runs it across Roman’s mouth.  “Y-you have…to put…me down,” he pleads.  He knows his touch will calm his rage.  It’s the only thing he knows when he knows nothing at all.  And right now, Roman doesn’t know what he’s doing.  “Please,” Peter struggles.  His eyes are now a piercing yellow, and his bones are beginning to come alive.

Suddenly realizing what he’s done, Roman releases Peter.  He drops to the floor in a loud thud, the sound of him breaking apart far louder than his fall.  There’s a quick flash of fear in Roman’s eyes as she turns and looks at Destiny who’s frantically flipping through a book filled with Romanian writing.  “I didn’t mean to,” Roman says apologetically.

“Keep your apology,” Destiny says still looking into the book.  “Right now I need to see if I can save him before the change is complete and he rips us both to shreds.

“No,” Roman says sternly as he turns back towards Peter.  He sees the skin on his neck begin to tear, exposing blood and nerve.  He drops to his knees and grabs a still human Peter by his shoulders and pushes him against the wall.

“Are you crazy?!” Destiny yells.

Now looking straight into the yellow fire that’s Peter’s eyes, the look of fear on Roman’s face transforms into something licentious and territorial.  “Don’t change Peter,” he says as he continues to look into a writhing Peter’s eyes.  He’s still there, on the brink of losing himself, but the Upir knows he can snap him out of it.  “Come back!  This, is _mine_.”

There’s an eerie chill that creeps up Destiny’s back at the sound of Roman’s voice.  There’s a depraved possessiveness in his voice, and the sound sends tendrils that nearly strangle Destiny it’s so strong.  A young Upir on the brink of full change is dangerous, and it bleeds over into other people.  She watches in horror as Roman keep Peter pinned against the wall.  He’s growling now.  It looks as if the change won’t reverse. 

“Peter, I know you’re in there,” Roman continues, refusing to back down.  “You hear me?  I said this is mine.  Mine!”

A loud cry escapes Peter’s bloody mouth, part human, and part wolf.  His chest begins to rise and fall heavily as he struggles to come to.  And just like dousing water on a fire, the yellow flames in his eyes begin to dissipate, his bones popping back into their original place.  Destiny looks on, wide-eyed and shocked.  No normal person could have done that, and she stands wondering to herself if this has happened before.  If it has – the young Upir is stronger than she anticipated.

“How’d you do that?” she asks, her hands shaky.

Roman lifts Peter off of the floor effortlessly and carries him to her couch.  He runs his hands over the blood on Peter’s face, before looking up at Destiny slowly.  His hazel eyes are dark and speaking things into her that she tries to ignore.  “Practice, I guess,” he says, his voice low, controlled. 

It’s right then Destiny realizes her cousin was in deeper than he let on.  She glances over at Peter as he comes back to the surface.  He opens his now blue eyes, blinks them weakly.  The look he gives her says it all, and it scares her more than anything.

_He’s not leaving him._

Roman sits on the couch opposite of Peter and helps himself to one of the cigarettes from the pack on the table.  He lights it, inhales deeply and does something that makes Destiny cringe.  He sucks Peter’s blood off of his index and middle finger, lets them linger in his mouth.  She knows she’s far too late.

“Sorry for the trouble,” Roman offers as he stands.  He glances down at Peter, rubs his hand gently through his hair before he walks towards the door to leave.  He turns slowly around and looks at Destiny.  “I guess I’ll leave him, let him finish his visit with you, rest up.”

“You’re just gonna leave him?  After all that?” she asks incredulous.  “And what makes you think he’ll come back to you?”  The question is in vain, because she knows Peter was gone before he came to her.

A low chuckle escapes Roman’s chest as he scans Destiny with his all-consuming eyes.  “What makes you think, he won’t?” he responds. 

Destiny doesn’t respond, only crouches next to Peter.  She watches Roman as he leaves, runs and locks her door once he’s out.  She makes her way back over to Peter and slowly lowers herself next to him.  “You ok?” she asks.

Peter looks up at her and nods.  “Yeah,” he says as he struggles to sit up.  Once his equilibrium stabilizes, he stands and slowly makes his way to her door.

“Where the hell are you going in that condition?”

Peter stops with his hand on the doorknob and slowly looks over his shoulder.  “Back to him.”

“You’ll get worse, and ruin yourself!” she warns, “possibly kill anyone in your path.”

He knows this choice is detrimental, knows this will eventually destroy him, possibly kill someone in the process.  Despite all of the negatives, Peter can’t bring himself to see past Roman.  So he gives in.  “I know,” he responds,” as he opens the door and leaves.

Destiny falls to her knees as he cousin disappears behind her closed door.  She knows it may be the last time she sees him. 

 

“I knew you’d come, find me here.”

Peter slowly makes his way towards Roman on the park bench.  It’s the place where he first changed for him.  “So did I,” Peter responds as he sits next to Roman.

“How are you feeling?”

“Sore,” Peter says as he grips his right side.  He then looks over at Roman, who’s already focused on him.  “You know I could’ve killed you.  I still can.”

Roman moves in closer so that their faces are an inch apart.  “You already have,” he says.

“What are we doing?” Peter asks just as he feels Roman’s lips ghost over the pulse on his neck.

“Destroying ourselves,” Roman responds before he bites down.  Peter gasps and looks up at the half moon.  He knows it’s only a matter of time. 

So he gives in to the _distrugere_ , Roman willingly going with him.

**Author's Note:**

> Playlist for this fic - "Biting Down" by Lorde, "Wolves" by Kiko King & creativemaze, "If I Had a Heart" and "I'm Not Done" by Fever Ray, "Arsonist's Lullaby" by Hozier and "Effortobreathe" by Phoria. There were like 3 or 4 other songs, but these were the ones I played the most. I certainly hope you enjoyed this fic, despite the darkness of it. The ending I used here was different than my first version. I decided to leave it a bit more open, although it's obvious Peter will soon succumb to his self-destruction and strange love for Roman. Here's to Season 3!
> 
> penprowess.tumblr.com


End file.
